You like to win. So much so, in fact, that you always like to say that you have never actually lost....you have only chosen to define victory in a new way. And so, when it becomes clear that the triumph you wish you had (He loves you alone, and She either disappears or assumes Her appropriate role as "mousy best friend of the beautiful heroine") you change your terms and move forward methodically. The resumes go out, the calls are made, and before you know it, Josh has lined up a position with Staples. It's in Danbury, another small city, but back in Connecticut and far away from Scranton, Pennsylvannia and outside of Dunder Mifflin and away from Him and Her and all that They did (or really, didn't do) that hurt you.
You don't tell them. During your last week, you drift along as if nothing has changed. Then, on Thursday night, you give Him your carefully prepared Dumping Speech, one both absolute in its finality and razor sharp in its biting indictment of His great crime against you. You close your comments by extracting a promise that He will say nothing tomorrow, that the breakup will remain a secret until Monday, when you presumably will have adjusted your mind to save face among your coworkers. He just doesn't know that your "adjustments" include a move several hundred miles away.
Friday morning, you stroll up to Her desk, spin a tale of a busy boyfriend and a fumigated apartment, and arrange a "girls slumber party" for that night. You notice Him tense as He eavesdrops, but you could truthfully reassure Him that you intend to avoid speaking His name to Her all night long. But, then, He never did know what He really should be worrying about, so why should this be any different.
The evening is fun, almost fun enough to make you regret that you aren't really Her friend. Almost. Not quite. Because when you feel the affection for Her rising in your heart, something else rises in your throat and it is bitter and sharp and it covers any sweetness that could have been. You keep feeding Her margaritas as you carefully dispose of your own when She isn't looking. She passes out on the couch in Her clothes, the drink still clutched in Her hand, and you see exactly how you will finish this. You tilt Her glass carefully, allowing the melted syrupy liquid to drizzle around Her neck, a sticky pink puddle forming in the hollow of Her throat. And, then, you lie beside Her, your blouse unbuttoned to reveal a single perfect breast rising from your Agent Provocateur bra. As a final touch, you position an empty glass in your hand and part your lips in a pose of what could be either drunken stupor or ecstatic release.
She doesn't take long to wake up. She slurs a curse under Her breath when she feels the spilled drink soaking her skin, and She staggers to her feet, muttering in frustration. You feel Her eyes on you, taking in your seductive pose, and you wonder if She is aroused or simply jealous. It doesn't matter, because both reactions suit your purpose.
She stumbles into the bathroom, and turns on the shower. As you hear Her clothes falling to the floor, your eyes snap open, and you smile, because you know that victory will soon be yours. When you hear the shower curtain skissssh on the metal rod, you slip wordlessly in to the steamy room, your own clothing left in a trail behind you, although that is mostly because you don't want to get wet. This isn't about you, after all. It never was. Which was precisely the problem.
She startles and turns when She hears you, wobbling a little on her still-drunk legs. She has been washing away the spilled drink, and Her body is covered with a foamy lather that smells like honeysuckle. Her eyebrows fly up in shock, but before She can react, your lips are on Hers and your hands are slipping across her soapy skin. You step forward, and Her back is against the wall, nowhere to go.
But, She doesn't try to go, anyway, and you knew She wouldn't. Because She is drunk and confused and it has been a ridiculous amount of time since anyone has touched Her this way. And, your hands are soft and sure and when you reach down and cup her rear, kneading her as you press your lips against hers, you are even more certain that Her oafish ex never did this. He certainly didn't -- couldn't -- stand here, face to face, toe to toe, two pairs of rounded breasts meeting perfectly, taut nipples sliding lightly back and forth, slipping and rubbing through a froth of flowers.
You pull your head back and stare in to Her eyes as your hand slides under Her, two fingers dipping inside of Her, gliding effortlessly into Her warm wetness. Her eyelids sink shut, Her head lolls back, and you bring your other hand forward and gently tease Her, circling lazily until you see Her face clouded in an agony of hunger and desperation.
Then, just when you know She is there, almost there, you do it. Your fingers flutter, in a soft tapping motion that makes Her eyes fly open and Her cry of shocked pleasure echoes across the tiled room. What She doesn't know about that move is that it is His move, a little trick that He is oh, so proud of. And now you can be satisfied in your petty victory, knowing that when He does that to Her, (which you know He will, it is only a matter of time) She will never be able to feel it without remembering that He did that to you, and you to Her. You were there first, for both of Them.
When She stills against you, you give Her a wink and a sly smile as you back out of the shower. You pull your clothes on even before you are dry, and quickly, silently leave Her apartment before She can even come out of the bathroom. You jog around the corner to your waiting car, a little U-Haul trailer attached to it, and you drive away into the night. You are at your Danbury hotel by 2am, and Scranton is far behind you. You climb in the shower as soon as you check in, but you can't seem to wash away the scent of honeysuckle.
Story Notes:
Whoa. I don't know what posessed me. Steamy Karen/Pam slash. Proceed at your own risk. My first effort in the land of slash, unless you want to count a Bad!fic parody piece. (Oh, and this one is not intentionally bad. So, be kind, OK?)
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Maybe Once is the author of 13 other stories.
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